Every year I am asked by clients, colleagues and friends if I am going to “cut up dead bodies again.” The phrase is meant to be playful and poke fun at my obsession with the human body, but I believe it’s also a way for the speaker to depersonalize what they think I am actually doing in the annual human dissection workshops I attend.

Language is important in the lab. The words we use define the dissection in ways that honor structure, function and organization. The term “human dissection” carries with it a very different picture than “cutting up dead bodies.” You can see how the two refer to the same thing, but they are not even close. We are honored guests at an unorthodox wake. At the request of the recently dead, it is our privilege to reverently unwrap the gift of their body donation.

I have a feeling that there is a profound curiosity beneath the inquiries around my work with “dead bodies,” and admittedly, the question makes me pause to reflect. What is it exactly that I am seeking in this arena? The more the question is asked, the more I struggle with defining the answer.

I entered the lab for the first time in the spring of 2004, and I had no idea it would be the start of an epic personal journey into body, mind and spirit. I am dissecting what it means to be human, on more levels than one. 

When I was nine, my dad died. This was not the first time I had seen the body of a dead person though. Two years prior, my dad’s dad had died. I have a memory of seeing him in the casket at the funeral, looking as if he were sleeping, but not quite real.

The funeral home asked for a recent picture of my dad so they could make up his body to look as close to his living self as possible. Something I would think about at every wake for years to come. Someone in the basement with a tray of makeup had the job of painting the body back to life. In particular, I remember looking at hands that appeared glued together—like there was no longer a defined difference between the palm of one hand where it lay over the back of the other. They were flattened together as if joined by an invisible liquid that filled the gap between, almost like caulking.

I don't know if that memory is of my grandfather or of my dad. But I do remember the funeral home where I last saw my father, and I remember my grandma touching his hands as she said goodbye. I was standing right beside her, and looked with shock from her to him, and back at her. Surprised by her confidence and the normalcy she brought to the act of stroking my dad’s lifeless flesh. I barely thought about it before I reached in to do the same. It was unexpectedly chilling. He was cold and stiff, as if he had been frozen, and a chill ran right through me, leaving goosebumps on my skin.

Physiologically, goosebumps are the product of feeling cold, or being tickled. They also show up when there are feelings of extreme emotion, perfectly demonstrating the mind-body connection. A physical response triggered by emotion.

In my mid-twenties, I accidentally stumbled upon my own mind-body connection through movement and breath. I was not at all prepared for the emergence of the emotional being that resided within. As I had not been previously aware of her existence, my life would take a dramatic turn toward deepening this physical and metaphorical discovery.

I know you want into this story right away, but I have to keep you at arm’s length while we begin. We hardly know one another, and I need to acclimatize to the discomfort of being exposed by my own pen. Bear with me as I reveal a bit of myself, then hide behind a veil of words and concepts while wrestling with a new level of vulnerability. I’ll give you more, I promise. This is how it goes getting to know me. You must begin as I have: an outsider looking in.

            I grew up to become mostly an artist; a darkroom could swallow me for days at a time. I studied graphic design but lacked the oomph to make a career out of it. I gave up trying and accepted work in a coffee shop as a way of surviving while I avoided the question of “What now?”

I enjoyed the social aspects of my job and embraced the creative ways I could present a cappuccino or a plate of curried vegetables, but I felt increasingly deflated by my lack of professional success. Born and raised in Ottawa, I had moved to Toronto two years earlier in hopes of outrunning my past and the unattended grief that had been nipping at my heels since my dad’s death. Months of monotony went by, and depression began to rob me of my keen eye for images. In those days I could often be found wandering the city with my dad’s old SLR and a few rolls of 35 mm film in my pocket. A camera lens had a way of reframing the world for me—extracting me from my own story. I would delight in the imaginative telling of a pictorial narrative involving the light and lines around me. Photography had always been an easy escape. The loss of this tried-and-true method of emotional rescue initiated my search for an activity that might revive my slumbering spirit.

It was 1999 and I was twenty-six. A downtown yoga studio had plastered the city with a powerful black-and-white image of a middle-aged man effortlessly bent and balanced, captivating the lens with his reposeful eyes. One of the posters had been hung in the café, where it held my gaze as I frothed up the milk for lattes. I was drawn to the artistry of the image. There was a story being told through this man’s demeanor and the ease with which he commanded his body. The marketing worked. I asked around, but no one knew anything about yoga, so I had to find out for myself. The studio listed on the poster was only a few blocks from my apartment, and I went to inquire.

Little did I know this would be my first inquiry into the mind-body connection. I was a little (lot) lost and a little (lot) angry in those days. I was severely out of touch with both my body and my mind.

I reluctantly purchased a five-class card and immediately, through movement and breath, began to experience a vitality I did not recognize. Almost every day within weeks of my first class, I found myself in the welcoming space of the yoga studio, enveloped by the sound of breath. It took me another four months to finally quit my decade-long love affair with cigarettes. I realized pretty quickly it was the ritual of observing my breath that I was addicted to, more than the nicotine. (Actually, I still love cigarettes but I no longer smoke them.)

I thrived in the studio. A wave of calm would come over me as I stepped from the hallway and into the light of the practice room. The windows were south-facing, nearly floor to ceiling. The light pouring in gave a warmth that made me feel at home. The paint on the walls, ceiling and large cylindrical support columns was chipped and peeling. It gave the space character, and I appreciate now how this rawness was not covered, altered or renovated. The cosmetic details of the room weren’t important. The studio had lungs and a pulse. The plants thrived, and we humans lapped it up.

I attributed that physical space to the transformation taking place inside me, but I also recognized the lunacy of that thought. As if a room could hold the magic power that was—not so slowly—changing my life.

The early days of my practice were ridiculously blissful, awakening me to powerful forces within. My mind was shifting toward the evidence my body was bringing forth: I had some control over my thoughts and experiences. I didn’t trust the high this discovery initiated, but my pessimism was rewarded as I began to unlock deep emotions buried within. Soon my movement practice became a struggle, as the weight of years of emotional avoidance began to surface.

In an attempt to ground myself in the physical aspects of my being, I turned to the study of anatomy. Through my yoga practice, I had explored with awe both the connection and contrast between mind and body. I twisted my mind through the philosophy and mythology of yoga, only to find there was still no metaphor, cliché or concept that could explain why the world made more sense to me when I was moving and breathing mindfully. The emergence of this body-mind mystery encouraged me to dig into the anatomical aspects of a human I could touch and explain. My studies were informal at first. I bought a handful of books, watched some videos and bored myself to tears. Despite the challenge of memorizing the structures of the body, I was determined to lock in a deeper interest. In retrospect, it was likely more a determination to lock out the emotion that my yoga practice had tapped.

A personal transformation was taking place in the container of my practice, which I thought was the yoga room, but more accurately was my very own flesh. The power of that small room on the corner of Spadina and Adelaide, with slivers of paint raining down on my mat, was an extension of my physical body, raw and unrenovated. It was my internal space that was shaping the experience, but I was not yet willing to appreciate it in an unpolished state. To slow down the emotional process, I dove into the study of the structure of my room, my body.

To Be Continued…